“Oh! !” said Matilda,—”kind, excellent Zastrozzi; what words can express the gratitude which I feel towards you — what words can express the bliss exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice; yet still, amid the roses of successful love — amid the ecstasies of transporting voluptuousness — fear, blighting chilly fear, damps my hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed Julia’s image, is the phantom which scares my otherwise certain confidence of eternal delight: could she but be hurled to destruction — could some other artifice of my friend sweep her from the number of the living—”
“‘Tis enough, Matilda,” interrupted ; “‘tis enough: in six days hence meet me here; meanwhile, let not any corroding anticipations destroy your present happiness: fear not; but, on the arrival of your faithful Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you wish to enjoy for ever.”
Thus saying, departed, and Matilda retraced her steps to her castella.
Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had so long panted — amid the embraces of him whom she had fondly supposed alone to constitute all terrestrial happiness, racking, corroding thoughts possessed Matilda’s bosom.
Deeply musing on schemes of future delight — delight established by the gratification of most diabolical revenge, her eyes fixed upon the ground, heedless what path she pursued, Matilda advanced along the forest.
A voice aroused her from her reverie — it was Verezzi’s — the well-known, the tenderly-adored tone, struck upon her senses forcibly: she started, and, hastening towards him, soon allayed those fears which her absence had excited in the fond heart of her spouse, and on which account he had anxiously quitted the castella to search for her.
Joy, rapturous, ecstatic happiness, untainted by fear, unpolluted by reflection, reigned for six days in Matilda’s bosom.
Five days passed away, the sixth arrived, and, when the evening came, Matilda, with eager and impatient steps, sought the forest.
The evening was gloomy, dense vapours overspread the air; the wind, low and hollow, sighed mournfully in the gigantic pine trees, and whispered in low hissings among the withered shrubs which grew on the rocky prominences.
Matilda waited impatiently for the arrival of . At last his towering form emerged from an interstice in the rocks.
He advanced towards her.
“Success! Victory! my Matilda,” exclaimed , in an accent of exultation—”Julia is—”
“You need add no more,” interrupted Matilda: “kind, excellent , I thank thee; but yet do say how you destroyed her — tell me by what racking, horrible torments, you launched her soul into eternity. Did she perish by the dagger’s point? or did the torments of poison send her, writhing in agony, to the tomb.”
“Yes,” replied ; “she fell at my feet, overpowered by resistless convulsions. Who more ready than myself to restore the Marchesa’s fleeted senses — who more ready than myself to account for her fainting, by observing, that the heat of the assembly had momentarily overpowered her. But Julia’s senses were fled for ever; and it was not until the swiftest gondola in Venice had borne me far towards your castella, that il consiglio di dieci searched for, without discovering the offender.
“Here I must remain; for, were I discovered, the fatal consequences to us both are obvious. Farewell for the present,” added he, “meanwhile happiness attend you; but go not to Venice.”
“Where have you been so late, my love?” tenderly inquired Verezzi as she returned. “I fear lest the night air, particularly that of so damp an evening as this, might affect your health.”
“No, no, my dearest Verezzi, it has not,” hesitatingly answered Matilda.
“You seem pensive, you seem melancholy, my Matilda,” said Verezzi: “lay open your heart to me. I am afraid something, of which I am ignorant, presses upon your bosom.
“Is it the solitude of this remote castella which represses the natural gaiety of your soul? Shall we go to Venice?”
“Oh! no, no!” hastily and eagerly interrupted Matilda: “not to Venice — we must not go to Venice.”
Verezzi was slightly surprised, but imputing her manner to indisposition, it passed off.
Unmarked by events of importance, a month passed away. Matilda’s passion, unallayed by satiety, unconquered by time, still raged with its former fierceness — still was every earthly delight centred in Verezzi; and, in the air-drawn visions of her imagination, she portrayed to herself that this happiness would last for ever.
It was one evening that Verezzi and Matilda sat, happy in the society of each other, that a servant entering, presented the latter with a sealed paper.
The contents were: “Matilda Contessa di Laurentini is summoned to appear before the holy inquisition — to appear before its tribunal, immediately on the receipt of this summons.”
Matilda’s cheek, as she read it, was blanched with terror. The summons — the fatal, irresistible summons, struck her with chilly awe. She attempted to thrust it into her bosom; but, unable to conceal her terror, she essayed to rush from the apartment — but it was in vain: her trembling limbs refused to support her, and she sank fainting on the floor.
Verezzi raised her — he restored her fleeting senses; he cast himself at her feet, and in the tenderest, most pathetic accents, demanded the reason of her alarm. “And if,” said he, “it is any thing of which I have unconsciously been guilty — if it is any thing in my conduct which has offended you, oh! how soon, how truly would I repent. Dearest Matilda, I adore you to madness: tell me then quickly — confide in one who loves you as I do.”
“Rise, Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda, in a tone expressive of serene horror: “and since the truth can no longer be concealed, peruse that letter.”
She presented him the fatal summons. He eagerly snatched it: breathless with impatience, he opened it. But what words can express the consternation of the affrighted Verezzi, as the summons, mysterious and inexplicable to him, pressed upon his straining eye-ball. For an instant he stood fixed in mute and agonising thought. At last, in the forced serenity of despair, he demanded what was to be done.
Matilda answered not; for her soul, borne on the pinions of anticipation, at that instant portrayed to itself ignominious and agonising dissolution.
“What is to be done?” again, in a deeper tone of despair, demanded Verezzi.
“We must instantly to Venice,” returned Matilda, collecting her scattered faculties: “we must to Venice; there, I believe, we may be safe. But in some remote corner of the city we must for the present fix our habitations: we must condescend to curtail our establishment; and, above all, we must avoid particularity. But will my Verezzi descend from the rank of life in which his birth has placed him, and with the outcast Matilda’s fortunes quit grandeur?”
“Matilda! dearest Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not thus; you know I am ever yours; you know I love you, and with you, could conceive a cottage elysium.”
Matilda’s eyes flushed with momentary triumph as Verezzi spoke thus, amid the alarming danger which impended her: under the displeasure of the inquisition, whose motives for prosecution are inscrutable, whose decrees are without appeal, her soul, in the possession of all it held dear on earth, secure of Verezzi’s affection, thrilled with pleasurable emotions, yet not unmixed with alarm.
She now prepared to depart. Taking, therefore, out of all her domestics, but the faithful Ferdinand, Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi, although the evening was far advanced, threw herself into a chariot, and leaving every one at the castella unacquainted with her intentions, took the road through the forest which led to Venice.
The convent bell, almost inaudible from distance, tolled ten as the carriage slowly ascended a steep which rose before it.
“But how do you suppose, my Matilda,” said Verezzi, “that it will be possible for us to evade the scrutiny of the inquisition?”
“Oh!” returned Matilda, “we must not appear in our true characters — we must disguise them.”
“But,” inqui
red Verezzi, “what crime do you suppose the inquisition to allege against you?”
“Heresy, I suppose,” said Matilda. “You know, an enemy has nothing to do but lay an accusation of heresy against any unfortunate and innocent individual, and the victim expires in horrible tortures, or lingers the wretched remnant of his life in dark and solitary cells.”
A convulsive sigh heaved Verezzi’s bosom.
“And is that then to be my Matilda’s destiny?” he exclaimed in horror. “No — Heaven will never permit such excellence to suffer.”
Meanwhile they had arrived at the Brenta. The Brenta’s stream glided silently beneath the midnight breeze towards the Adriatic.
Towering poplars, which loftily raised their spiral forms on its bank, cast a gloomier shade upon the placid wave.
Matilda and Verezzi entered a gondola, and the grey tints of approaching morn had streaked the eastern ether, before they entered the grand canal at Venice; and passing the Rialto, proceeded onwards to a small, though not inelegant mansion, in the eastern suburbs.
Every thing here, though not grand, was commodious; and as they entered it, Verezzi expressed his approbation of living here retired.
Seemingly secure from the scrutiny of the inquisition, Matilda and Verezzi passed some days of uninterrupted happiness.
At last, one evening Verezzi, tired even with monotony of ecstasy, proposed to Matilda to take the gondola, and go to a festival which was to be celebrated at St. Mark’s Place.
CHAPTER XIV.
The evening was serene. — Fleecy clouds floated on the horizon — the moon’s full orb, in cloudless majesty, hung high in air, and was reflected in silver brilliancy by every wave of the Adriatic, as, gently agitated by the evening breeze, they dashed against innumerable gondolas which crowded the Laguna.
Exquisite harmony, borne on the pinions of the tranquil air, floated in varying murmurs: it sometimes died away, and then again swelling louder, in melodious undulations softened to pleasure every listening ear.
Every eye which gazed on the fairy scene beamed with pleasure; unrepressed gaiety filled every heart but Julia’s, as with a vacant stare, unmoved by feelings of pleasure, unagitated by the gaiety which filled every other soul, she contemplated the varied scene. A magnificent gondola carried the Marchesa di Strobazzo; and the innumerable flambeaux which blazed around her rivalled the meridian sun.
It was the pensive, melancholy Julia, who, immersed in thought, sat unconscious of every external object, whom the fierce glance of Matilda measured with a haughty expression of surprise and revenge. The dark fire which flashed from her eye, more than told the feelings of her soul, as she fixed it on her rival; and had it possessed the power of the basilisk’s, Julia would have expired on the spot.
It was the ethereal form of the now forgotten Julia which first caught Verezzi’s eye. For an instant he gazed with surprise upon her symmetrical figure, and was about to point her out to Matilda, when, in the downcast countenance of the enchanting female, he recognised his long-lost Julia.
To paint the feelings of Verezzi — as Julia raised her head from the attitude in which it was fixed, and disclosed to his view that countenance which he had formerly gazed on in ecstasy, the index of that soul to which he had sworn everlasting fidelity — is impossible.
The Lethean torpor, as it were, which before had benumbed him; the charm, which had united him to Matilda, was dissolved.
All the air-built visions of delight, which had but a moment before floated in gay variety in his enraptured imagination, faded away, and, in place of these, regret, horror, and despairing repentance, reared their heads amid the roses of momentary voluptuousness.
He still gazed entranced, but Julia’s gondola, indistinct from distance, mocked his straining eyeball.
For a time neither spoke: the gondola rapidly passed onwards, but, immersed in thought, Matilda and Verezzi heeded not its rapidity.
They had arrived at St. Mark’s Place, and the gondolier’s voice, as he announced it, was the first interruption of the silence.
They started. — Verezzi now, for the first time, aroused from his reverie of horror, saw that the scene before him was real; and that the oaths of fidelity which he had so often and so fervently sworn to Julia were broken.
The extreme of horror seized his brain — a frigorific torpidity of despair chilled every sense, and his eyes, fixedly, gazed on vacancy.
“Oh! return — instantly return!” impatiently replied Matilda to the question of the gondolier.
The gondolier, surprised, obeyed her, and they returned.
The spacious canal was crowded with gondolas; merriment and splendour reigned around, enchanting harmony stole over the scene; but, listless of the music, heeding not the splendour, Matilda sat lost in a maze of thought.
Fiercest vengeance revelled through her bosom, and, in her own mind, she resolved a horrible purpose.
Meanwhile, the hour was late, the moon had gained the zenith, and poured her beams vertically on the unruffled Adriatic, when the gondola stopped before Matilda’s mansion.
A sumptuous supper had been prepared for their return. Silently Matilda entered — silently Verezzi followed.
Without speaking, Matilda seated herself at the supper table: Verezzi, with an air of listlessness, threw himself into a chair beside her.
For a time neither spoke.
“You are not well to-night,” at last stammered out Verezzi: “what has disturbed you?”
“Disturbed me!” repeated Matilda: “why do you suppose that any thing has disturbed me?”
A more violent paroxysm of horror seemed now to seize Verezzi’s brain. He pressed his hand to his burning forehead — the agony of his mind was too great to be concealed — Julia’s form, as he had last seen her, floated in his fancy, and, overpowered by the resistlessly horrible ideas which pressed upon them, his senses failed him: he faintly uttered Julia’s name — he sank forward, and his throbbing temples reclined on the table.
“Arise! awake! prostrate, perjured Verezzi, awake!” exclaimed the infuriate Matilda, in a tone of gloomy horror.
Verezzi started up, and gazed with surprise upon the countenance of Matilda, which, convulsed by passion, flashed desperation and revenge.
“‘Tis plain,” said Matilda, gloomily, “‘tis plain, he loves me not.”
A confusion of contending emotions battled in Verezzi’s bosom: his marriage vow — his faith plighted to Matilda — convulsed his soul with indescribable agony.
Still did she possess a great empire over his soul — still was her frown terrible — and still did the hapless Verezzi tremble at the tones of her voice, as, in a phrensy of desperate passion, she bade him quit her for ever: “And,” added she, “go, disclose the retreat of the outcast Matilda to her enemies; deliver me to the inquisition, that a union with her you detest may fetter you no longer.”
Exhausted by breathless agitation, Matilda ceased: the passions of her soul flashed from her eyes; ten thousand conflicting emotions battled in Verezzi’s bosom; he knew scarce what to do; but, yielding to the impulse of the moment, he cast himself at Matilda’s feet, and groaned deeply.
At last the words, “I am ever yours, I ever shall be yours,” escaped his lips.
For a time Matilda stood immoveable. At last she looked on Verezzi; she gazed downwards upon his majestic and youthful figure; she looked upon his soul-illumined countenance, and tenfold love assailed her softened soul. She raised him — in an oblivious delirium of sudden fondness she clasped him to her bosom, and, in wild and hurried expressions, asserted her right to his love.
Her breast palpitated with fiercest emotions; she pressed her burning lips to his; most fervent, most voluptuous sensations of ecstasy revelled through her bosom.
Verezzi caught the infection; in an instant of oblivion, every oath of fidelity which he had sworn to another, like a baseless cloud, dissolved away; a Lethean torpor crept over his senses; he forgot Julia, or remembered her only as an uncertain
vision, which floated before his fancy more as an ideal being of another world, whom he might hereafter adore there, than as an enchanting and congenial female, to whom his oaths of eternal fidelity had been given.
Overcome by unutterable transports of returning bliss, she started from his embrace — she seized his hand — her face was overspread with a heightened colour as she pressed it to her lips.
“And are you then mine — mine for ever?” rapturously exclaimed Matilda.
“Oh! I am thine — thine to all eternity,” returned the infatuated Verezzi: “no earthly power shall sever us; joined by congeniality of soul, united by a bond to which God himself bore witness.”
He again clasped her to his bosom — again, as an earnest of fidelity, imprinted a fervent kiss on her glowing cheek; and, overcome by the violent and resistless emotions of the moment, swore, that nor heaven nor hell should cancel the union which he here solemnly and unequivocally renewed.
Verezzi filled an overflowing goblet.
“Do you love me?” inquired Matilda.
“May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore thee not to distraction! may I be plunged in endless torments, if my love for thee, celestial Matilda, endures not for ever!”
Matilda’s eyes flashed fiercest triumph; the exultingly delightful feelings of her soul were too much for utterance — she spoke not, but gazed fixedly on Verezzi’s countenance.
CHAPTER XV.
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts.
And take my milk for gall, ye murd’ring ministers.
Wherever, in your sightless substances.
Ye wait on nature’s mischief.
— Macbeth.
Verezzi raised the goblet which he had just filled, and exclaimed, in an impassioned tone —
“My adored Matilda! this is to thy happiness — this is to thy every wish; and if I cherish a single thought which centres not in thee, may the most horrible tortures which ever poisoned the peace of man, drive me instantly to distraction. God of heaven! witness thou my oath, and write it in letters never to be erased! Ministering spirits, who watch over the happiness of mortals, attend! for here I swear eternal fidelity, indissoluble, unalterable affection to Matilda!”
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series Page 134